Damn. Heirloom or not, she didn’t want anything to do with the locket.
Debating the best place to hide the thing until she had to wear it when her parents came for their next visit, Serra was distracted when she abruptly sensed the approach of an unexpected visitor.
Fane.
What the hell?
She was in no mood for another round of “good-byes.”
Especially when a clammy sweat was suddenly coating her skin and a distracting buzz was beginning to fill her mind.
Damn tequila.
For a frantic moment she considered the possibility of scurrying into her shower. Fane had the superior senses of a Sentinel; he would hear the water and know she was unavailable.
Then she squared her shoulders and told herself to stop being a coward.
In a few hours he would be gone. Surely she could pretend she didn’t give a damn until then?
Licking her dry lips, Serra pulled open the door and confronted the current pain-in-her-neck.
He’d showered and changed since she’d last seen him. The scent of his clean male skin teased at her senses, while the tight muscle shirt that was tucked into his green khakis emphasized the beauty of his sculpted muscles.
She had a sudden vision of licking her way over the swirling tattoos exposed by his shirt before the buzzing in her head overrode the treacherous thought.
“Fane, what do you want?” she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temple.
“I didn’t like how we left things.”
She shrugged, holding on to the door as a dizzy spell nearly sent her to her knees. Damn. How much had she had to drink?
“If you want me to pretend I’m happy you’re leaving then you’re wasting your time,” she muttered, the words coming out with an unexpected slur.
Fane frowned, studying her with a searching gaze. “Have you been drinking?”
“None of your damn business.”
His jaw tightened, but his expression remained carved from granite. “Can I come in?”
She hesitated. It was more than a reluctance to spend time with Fane. The weird buzzing in her head was slowing to become a persistent murmur. As if someone was whispering directly in her mind.
Obviously she needed to spend some time working on the shields that protected her from random conversations that floated on the psychic plane.
Sensing Fane’s growing concern, Serra heaved a sigh and stepped back, giving a mocking wave of her hand.
“Please . . . enter.”
Stepping over the threshold, Fane glanced down at the locket that was still clutched in her fingers.
“What is that?”
“A gift.”
Without thought Serra slid the chain over her head to allow the locket to nestle against her cleavage.
There was a burst of heat as Fane narrowed his gaze. Anger? Jealousy? Lust?
Impossible to say.